Maeglin, My Love
by Lysana
Summary: Maeglin x Idril! Not creepy! Dizzyingly AU. In a surprising twist, Idril turns out not to be so closely related to Maeglin. She falls in love with him. I've solved the mystery of Tuor and Eärendil! Don't worry, they'll be fine. I'll explain soon! :D
1. Chapter 1: So Wrong To Love

Title: Maeglin, My Love

Summary: Maeglin x Idril! Not creepy! Dizzyingly AU. In a surprising twist, Idril turns out not to be so closely related to Maeglin. She falls in love with him. Don't ask me what this means for Tuor and Eärendil - I don't know yet! But it will be all right. :)

Author's Note: The style of this fic is inspired by the "Cats! The Musical" fandom that I have been a part of for a third of my life. Thanks to all of you Cats! writers who have written an improbable or seemingly hopeless pairing between two Jellicle Cats, and made it work. You are the reason I am daring to write this story instead of just wishing.

I've drawn a picture of Maeglin and Idril! Why not check it out? To see it, go to my author bio, click on the Homepage link and then go to the Fanart section. Scroll down to "Illustrations by Fanfic Title" and click on "Maeglin, My Love."

This fanfic will definitely have more illustrations in the future. I'll put author's notes into the beginnings of my chapters to let you know any time I have new pictures posted for the story. :)

* * *

Chapter 1: So Wrong To Love

_Maeglin, my love..._ How he had dreamed of hearing those words: hearing her say them, burying his face in that gleaming sunlit hair, feeling her beautiful gentle arms holding him close...

It was still only a dream now. He knew that, though he wished it was otherwise.

Maeglin had lived in the darkness too long. Now, Idril was his sunshine. But he could not dare to tell her that. _She's my cousin!_ he thought in despair, as he often had. It was beyond sin that he should care for her in the way he did. How could he say something so dark to someone so full of light?

He could not dare to tell her, but she already knew. He could see it in her heart as she walked by, shining through her eyes like a dark light of pain and distaste.

_There is nothing I can do to keep her from knowing,_ he thought, _even as there is no way I can prevent myself from seeing that she knows._ He shook his head, feeling the tears in his heart that his eyes would not shed. _I cannot help seeing all that she feels in her eyes! If I could not see all hearts with this keen vision of mine, still I would see hers because I love her so._

Maeglin shook his head, opening his eyes. There was no point in pretending to sleep any more. The sun would be rising over the mountains in only two hours.

_Forget trying to distract yourself,_ he thought. _You know and you do not care what time the sun rises. What you shook your head at is the way you dared to think that you love Idril._

* * *

Reveling at the sun that poured down into the open central space of Gondolin, Idril Celebrindal danced.

She giggled as her feet flew, remembering a time long ago when she was a little girl. She had danced then too, not here but in another city, with the sun of another year shining in her hair that was already long enough to fly out almost as far as her little arms.

As she twisted and spun, that little girl from so long ago, she had suddenly heard her father's voice, laughing and praising her. "Beautifully done, Silverfoot! Idril Celebrindal!"

Idril had paused in her dancing, looking down at her feet in confusion, picking up first one and then the other to examine it closely. Again, Turgon laughed.

"No, no," he explained to the child, "your feet are not made of silver! It is an epessë, an aftername. Do you know how my cousin Finrod is also called Felagund, Lord of Caves?

Idril had nodded, still feeling confused. What did this have to do with her feet?

"In the same way," Turgon said, "you are now called Celebrindal, or Silverfoot, as well as your own name of Idril. It is an expression of praise for your dancing." Eyes twinkling, her father had asked her, "Do you like it?"

"Oh, Father!" Idril ran towards him, covering the short distance in a single heartbeat, and jumped up all the way into his arms, her lithe young legs launching her three times her own height into the air to land with her arms firmly clasped around his neck. "I love it!" She kissed him enthusiastically on the cheek, then jumped down and ran off, glancing back once to see her father shaking his head with a smile of resigned amusement.

Now, many years of the Sun later, Idril was long since fully grown. Aside from her height and the maturity of her thoughts and understanding, little about her had changed. She still danced with the same abandon, her loose golden hair flying about her as wildly as it ever had, and her bright laughter could still be heard ringing in all the corners of Gondolin, wherever she went.

Suddenly she caught sight of a pair of burning blue-gray eyes, staring at her from an upper window of the palace.

Idril almost stumbled, but that would have been as uncanny as if Fëanor's son Maglor had missed a note while singing. Instead, her feet brought her quickly to a smooth if unexpected halt.

_Maeglin!_ Idril's heart filled with a sudden dismay, replacing her laughter. _Why must he think of me the way he does?_ Feeling cold, she looked up into his eyes, small but piercing in the tower window far above. She felt as if he could read her soul even at this distance, and she reminded herself that it was not just a feeling. She had no doubt he could.

_But why is it surprising?_ she asked herself. _I can read his eyes as clearly._ The mad longing in his gaze as he stared down at her made her shiver in the bright, warm summer sunlight. _If we were not cousins, it wouldn't be so bad,_ she thought, _unsettling as he is. But how can he look at me that way when we are so closely related?_

Too frightened to look any longer into those piercing eyes that stared so desperately into her own, Idril turned around, picked up her skirts, and ran away. She wished that this dark, mysterious son of her aunt Aredhel had never come to Gondolin.

* * *

Maeglin briefly closed his eyes in despair as she left. Looking out the window and seeing her dancing in all her splendour on the white stones below, he had not been able to convince himself to look away. He had stood transfixed by her beauty, as he was every time he saw her. _But I did not want to make her uncomfortable!_ he thought in silent protest. Yet that was what always happened when he looked at her, as he could not help doing every time she was near.

_How can the Valar be so cruel? How can I bring Idril so much pain by wishing to bring her all the happiness in the world?_ He stared longingly down the narrow street where she had vanished, feeling a sense of horror at himself for being the one who had driven her away.

_Is it so wrong to love?_ Maeglin shook his head angrily, his long black hair swirling gently and gracefully around his shoulders. He saw again the hurt in Idril's eyes as she fled from the plaza where she had been dancing moments earlier. _It would seem that it is, when the one who loves is Maeglin._

* * *

Author's Note: For the canon origin of the term 'epessë' see _Unfinished Tales,_ page 279.


	2. Chapter 2: Remembering the Ice

Author's Note: As promised, I've drawn and posted another illustration for this fic on my homepage! That actually makes three drawings so far, because in my Chapter 1 note I dishonorably neglected to mention my Maeglin character portrait that I'd already posted along with the picture I did mention. :)

* * *

Chapter 2: Remembering the Ice

That night in Gondolin, Turgon remembered. The crossing of the Helcaraxë might have been long ago, but to an Elvenking it was only a small part of his lifetime.

* * *

"Idril! My Idril! No!" With a slight splash, the young mother named Lindë leaped into the water as smoothly as a fish. Elenwë cried out in alarm and jumped in after them before Turgon realized what was happening.

Seeing his wife disappear into the dark water, Turgon froze in place like a statue. "Elenwë!" He wanted to dive in after her and the other two, but he dared not. The water was deep and cold, but the space between the ice floes was jagged, narrow, and constantly shifting. Turgon feared that if he jumped into the water, he might only crush or obstruct Elenwë and Lindë. His heart almost paralyzed by fear, he could only watch as they attempted to find and save the little girl who had just fallen in.

"There!" he called suddenly, pointing, as he spotted Idril's bright gold hair surfacing near one of the ice masses. The slender, yellow-haired Lindë quickly swam towards her small daughter, Elenwë a few strokes behind and fighting to keep up in the churning water.

A grief and fear that were at once raw and deeply, achingly familiar welled up in Turgon's soul. _So many have died already..._ He knew that Idril's father had been among them. _Do not let us lose the rest of that family!_ He could not even think about the danger to Elenwë.

In the freezing water, Lindë found her child and grabbed her with both hands. Exhausted by cold in spite of her usual strength, she seemed to channel all the power that remained in her slim body into that grip. To Turgon's horror, she and Idril sank beneath the surface even as Lindë kicked the water into a furious spray in her efforts to keep them afloat.

"Help me, Lady!" Lindë gasped as her head briefly popped above the water's surface. Then she submerged again, her hands still holding the tiny Idril aloft.

Elenwë kicked strongly towards her, even though she was obviously weighed down by her heavy, wet cloak. Reaching them, she took Idril from her mother's desperate hands and clasped the child to her own chest. Lindë slipped farther down beneath the water, and Turgon could dimly see her continuing to sink, unmoving, for several feet before she vanished.

Turgon's wife splashed towards him through the water, her movements so hampered by cold and by her heavy, clinging clothing that she was almost ungraceful. Reaching up as she neared the water's edge, she thrust Idril towards him. Instantly he reached out for the child.

Elenwë's eyes met Turgon's, burning as brightly as he had ever seen them. "Take her!" The second Idril was securely in his arms, Elenwë turned and dived under the water, arrowing down after the sinking Lindë. Turgon watched with his own breath unconsciously held in terrified sympathy.

Finally his wife's head broke the surface. She has holding Lindë against her with one arm, but the young mother's face was blue and still.

"No..." Turgon breathed, as he and several others reached out to help pull Elenwë and Lindë onto the ice. Anxiously he looked down at Lindë's cold, still form, then stepped aside in haste to let Galadriel near.

The radiant daughter of Finarfin, her face grim, knelt to examine Lindë. After a few seconds, she shook her head. "Her heart has stopped," she said. "Another one of our kinsfolk has gone to Mandos."

They were interrupted by a sudden fit of violent shivering from Elenwë. Aghast, Turgon turned to stare at his wife. "Beloved! Are you all right?"

Elenwë nodded, her arms wrapped around herself, as she continued to shiver wildly. Then, as Galadriel swifty turned from Lindë's lifeless form and came towards her, Elenwë gasped once and stopped shivering. Glancing up, Turgon saw Galadriel's face go very dark.

Gently, Galadriel put her arms around Elenwë as she knelt beside her on the hard ice. "Rest easy, my cousin's wife," she said. She appeared only to be giving comfort, but Turgon had seen the experienced healer at work many times and he knew that she was busy discovering all she could about Elenwë's condition.

"You have done a wonderful thing," she went on, "to rescue young Idril. She is a strong child, and she will come to no harm, thanks to you and her mother." Galadriel did not mention Lindë's death, but the sudden grief in Elenwë's eyes made it clear that she understood.

"I am glad... that dear Idril will live," Elenwë said softly. "Her laughter has been a wonder to all of us on this otherwise joyless crossing."

"Yes," Galadriel agreed. "You need not worry about her. In this one thing, the Valar have been merciful in spite of our rebellion." She eased her arms from around Elenwë and stood up. Turgon watched Galadriel's face, terrified of what he might be about to learn.

"I cannot help her," Galadriel said gently, looking at her cousin Turgon with grief in her wise eyes. "There is little enough heat left in my own body that I fear that, even if I could somehow give all of it to her, it would do her no good."

Turgon bowed his head, then quickly looked at Elenwë, not wanting to lose a second of the time in which he might still see her face.

Raising her head and her voice, Galadriel called to those who waited near. "Let us move a little away. We must make plans for the next stages of our journey." Even though the group included her uncle Fingolfin and several others who were her seniors, all of them obeyed Galadriel at once and without a word. Turgon, grateful through his intense sorrow, realized that she was giving him and Elenwë a last chance to speak to each other alone. Then he put Galadriel and all but one of the Eldalië completely out of his mind.

"Elenwë..." he said in anguish, dropping down to the ice by her side. Looking into her eyes, he could not continue for a moment. "My dear love..." he finally said helplessly.

Elenwë smiled faintly, taking his hand. "Beloved Turgon, best of Elven-princes!" She looked intently at him. "Do not be too sad! My life is less than a fair price for that of little Idril." She paused for a moment, seeming too weak to continue. "I only wish I had been able to purchase Lindë's, as well."

Turgon put his arms around her and held her tightly, tears running down his face and freezing on his skin as they went. "I cannot argue with you, my dear, but it is hard for me to accept the loss of you at any price." Then he realized that he could only be hurting her by talking this way. With an effort, he smiled and brightened his voice. "Thank you, Elenwë. Do not worry for me. I will be all right."

"I know you will," Elenwë said, her eyes alight with a fading but beautiful fire. "I fell in love with you for your strength as much as for your kind heart." Laughing with an effort, she added, "And your incredible good looks!"

Turning serious, as if she sensed that she did not have much time, Elenwë looked at the child Idril who was still in Turgon's arms. "She must not grow up alone," Elenwë said determinedly. "When I could not save Lindë, I became Idril's mother in my heart. I thought to raise her, but now I understand that I will not."

Turgon's heart twisted with a painful mix of emotions. "Do not fear," he told his wife, as he looked at the sweet, confused little face of young Idril. "It is not in your heart alone that Idril has become our child. I could not leave her to another's care now."

Elenwë sighed, seeming to relax as if she no longer had any worries in all the wide realms of Middle-earth or Valinor. Smiling gently, she looked up at Idril, then at her husband. "My beloved..." she said, as Turgon had a few minutes earlier. Then she let her body go completely limp, and Turgon knew her spirit was no longer housed in it.

"Mama?" Idril looked up at him questioningly, her blue eyes as bright as her golden hair.

Turgon, his heart breaking again, shook his head. "No, little one," he told her honestly. "There's only me now, and all the rest of our kin." Closing his arms tightly and protectively around her, he stood up and went to rejoin them.

* * *

"Elenwë is lost," Turgon said heavily. "As is young Lindë." He held up a hand, cradling the shivering, bright-haired little Idril in his other arm. "Here is my daughter. Let us speak no more of this."

Finrod and Galadriel, and Turgon's father Fingolfin and his other son and daughter, stood silently in front of the grieving lord. His brother Fingon, lips blue with cold like everyone else's, nodded sadly. Then all of them except Aredhel walked away, soberly returning to their other duties of trying to keep their people alive in this terrible crossing of the Ice.

Aredhel stepped close to her grieving brother and reached out to stroke the soft hair of the now-sleeping Idril. "Poor little dear," she said softly. "I'll do my best to help care for you now." Putting an arm around Turgon's shoulders, she looked into his eyes. "We have to survive," she said. "All of us. We must not let anyone else die."

* * *

_We almost fulfilled Aredhel's not-quite-vow about that,_ Turgon thought, starting to draw his mind back from memory into the present. They had lost several others after that point, but most of the remaining Noldor had indeed survived the rest of the crossing.

_And Idril is here._ Turgon felt a joy in his heart that was enough to lessen the ancient sting of grief. _I am glad that she and Aredhel have survived._

* * *

Author's Note: The character Lindë is made up by me. Her name is from the term 'lin-' (meaning 'sing') in the Silmarillion's name-components index, sometimes seen as 'lindë' (as in 'Ondolindë') in the text. I intend her name to mean "Song."


	3. Chapter 3: Aredhel

Author's Note: Once again, I've added another picture for this fic to Razzle's and my webpage, which you can reach by clicking the "Homepage" link on my author bio. I'm definitely shooting for at least one illustration per chapter! :)

* * *

Chapter 3: Aredhel

Aredhel Ar-Feiniel hurried back in through the tall white gates of Gondolin's city, not because she was in haste but because she chose to hurry. The wind in her hair made her feel free, and she laughed in merry amusement like a child.

"Wild deer," her brother Turgon often called her, for her love of running over the grass of the wide field of Tumladen that lay within the mountainous walls of their valley with the city proper at its heart.

Once she had felt imprisoned by the valley, being used to the wider spaces of Valinor where she had grown up, and the even vaster open lands of Beleriand in Middle-earth. But no longer; after her years spent in the dark forest of Nan Elmoth, she felt as if her rejoicing in the deep sky over Gondolin, and the many bright, joyful places the small kingdom held, would never fade.

And now she had Maeglin. _That makes all the difference!_ Aredhel's heart filled with love as she thought of her son. With him here, her life could never be a burden to her.

She frowned, slowing to a walk as she ascended the spiraling streets of Gondolin, modeled after Tirion where she had grown up. Maeglin was here, true...

_But why are you so unhappy all the time, my little Lómion?_ She still thought of her son that way sometimes, even though Maeglin was the name that defined him now, and the only name for him that any but the two of them knew.

Breaking into an easy run again, Aredhel put such thoughts firmly aside. _Maeglin will tell me soon,_ she reassured herself. _Until then, I will simply bring him all the joy I can._

* * *

"Maeglin!" Hearing his mother's voice, he turned and saw her hurrying across the open square to meet him. "I have not seen you since morning!" she called brightly to him. "How have you been?"

"Mother!" Even as Maeglin rejoiced at seeing her, his heart caught with a sudden pain as he remembered how close he had once come to losing her forever. Looking at her bright eyes and her face that was as warm and rosy as it was pale, he recalled the way she had looked the first night they came to Gondolin, after his father Eöl had nearly claimed her life with a javelin intended for Maeglin. He half-listened to his own and his mother's idle conversation as they walked up the stairs of a tower to her living chambers. Most of his mind was taken up by memories of that deadly night.

* * *

Maeglin looked up, his face dark. "My father used a poisoned dart. I recognize the symptoms. This fever has claimed more than one predator that tried to attack our home in Nan Elmoth." He shook his head grimly, heartsick with worry. "I do not know the antidote, but I can describe the plant he used. Perhaps your healers can find a cure."

"Let us hope so," Turgon said, his face equally grave. He looked down at the deeply sleeping Aredhel, much paler than was normal even for her. "My dear sister... and your mother," he added, glancing over at Maeglin.

"Please, gentle Estë," the king prayed almost in a whisper, naming the Vala who was queen of all healing powers in the world, "let her be all right."

_Yes,_ Maeglin echoed in his heart, thoroughly frightened. _She has done no wrong._

* * *

Estë had been merciful. One of Gondolin's healers had recognized Maeglin's description of the plant, and Aredhel had received the antidote to Eöl's poison just in time. She had recovered; but the next morning, when Turgon's guards went to bring Eöl from his prison to face the King's judgement, there had been no sign of him. Maeglin's father had vanished in the night, though he was held by iron chains in a locked, deep cell.

_I only hope he went home, or somewhere else where he will never trouble us again._

Maeglin looked away from his dark thoughts, out into the sunshine that flooded in through the open window.

"What is it, Maeglin?" Aredhel asked gently.

"I was remembering how you almost died when we came here," Maeglin answered.

Aredhel's bright face darkened briefly. "It was almost you who died," she said, her voice grim as she clearly recalled without forgiveness her husband's attempt to kill their son.

"Yes, but we are all right now," Maeglin said, not wanting to see his mother reminded of her old pain. He smiled. "See, I am fine now. The shadow has passed."

Aredhel looked shrewdly at him. "That is not entirely true," she said. "I may not be able to read your heart the way you can read mine, but a mother knows her child's spirit. Something has been troubling you, since the first day we came here and sat in honor at my brother's feast of welcome for us. What is it?"

"I fear that you will hate me," Maeglin said, looking at the ground.

"Maeglin." Aredhel placed one hand on each of the young elf-lord's shoulders, obliging him to look up at her. "A mother can never hate her child."

Maeglin read the truth of that in Aredhel's eyes. _But it will cause you pain, Mother!_ Still, he could no longer keep the feelings inside his lonely heart.

"I love Idril," he said, pain and despair coloring his voice. "Mother, she's my cousin! How can I even feel such things? But the light in her hair is like nothing I've ever seen, and the light in her spirit draws me more."

Maeglin felt his mother's hands tightening on his shoulders. Her eyes suddenly held a watchful expression that still, somehow, filled him with a wild hope.

"My son," she said slowly after a long moment, "I think that you had better speak to Turgon."

_What!_ Maeglin's breath caught. "Turgon is my lord, and my cousin Idril's father! How can I tell him that I am so twisted as to love his daughter? How should I dare to speak so to him? It is bad enough that I feel this way, without shaming myself and our family before my King."

Aredhel shook her head, smiling. "Do as I say," she told him gently, "my dear Lómion."

* * *

Author's Note: According to the Silmarillion, Lómion was the Quenya name that Aredhel secretly gave to Maeglin at his birth. It means "Child of the Twilight." His father Eöl named him Maeglin, meaning "Sharp Glance," when he was twelve years old.


	4. Chapter 4: Sudden Hope

Chapter 4: Sudden Hope

"My king, there is something I must tell you," Maeglin said, speaking resolutely in spite of the hesitation he still felt. "But I fear what you will think of me..." He looked up into Turgon's kindly blue eyes, set in his strong regal face. "For it is shameful," he finished.

Turgon stood up from the finely upholstered chair in one of the palace's small sitting rooms, where Maeglin had found him off-duty and spending a quiet moment alone. He walked the few paces to where Maeglin stood, and looked steadily at his much younger kinsman.

"Maeglin," the king said, his eyes warm, "you are the greatest joy that has come into my life in a very long time. No matter what you have to say, I will hear it and love you no less."

_That is only what you think,_ Maeglin's heart said inside him. Still, his mother had advised him to speak to his king, and Maeglin had resolved to do as she bid.

Slowly, hating himself for every word, he spoke. "Lord, I love your daughter Idril," he said. "Not only as a cousin, but... I wish that she would agree to be my bride." His cheeks flaming against his pale face, Maeglin looked at the floor. _How could I have said such terrible things?_

Turgon spoke no word for a long moment. Fearing the King's wrath, and still desperately ashamed, Maeglin finally looked up at his liege-lord. He had expected to see condemnation, but instead Turgon's face held a mixture of shock and guilt.

"Maeglin, listen to me," Turgon said, and Maeglin could tell instinctively just how sincere the king was. "The only fault here is mine. I never expected that anything like this might happen, and now I have caused both you and Idril needless grief and pain." He paused briefly, his eyes holding the pain of some ancient memory of his own. "Idril is not my daughter by birth."

The words would have been impossible to believe if it were not for Maeglin's deep, implicit trust in his king.

"She's not my cousin?" Maeglin whispered. "I'm not..."

Turgon smiled. "No, Maeglin, your heart is not twisted! You are a good and noble young lord, and I am proud to have you in my family." His eyes grew sadder again. "Long ago, when my kinsfolk and I crossed the Helcaraxë to reach Middle-earth, there was a young mother named Lindë who was one of our companions on the journey. Her husband died along the way, and then --" He paused, then clearly willed himself to continue speaking. "She and my own wife Elenwë both lost their lives rescuing Lindë's daughter Idril. Elenwë and I decided, after Lindë's death, that Idril must be our child from then on... and then Elenwë died too."

Maeglin listened in astonishment and new grief of his own. He knew, as did Idril, the tale of how Elenwë had died to save the young child who had fallen suddenly into the churning water between the walls of ice, and he knew that many, many Elves had died on that journey, but the knowledge of Lindë and her valiant sacrifice alongside Elenwë's own brought a sharp, personal sadness.

"I only wanted to spare Idril pain," Turgon said unhappily. "I did not want her to have to grieve for two mothers. But I see now that I was wrong and she must know at once."

Maeglin stood stricken. _Such pain, and Idril would never know it if it were not for me._ The thought was terrible. "Perhaps you should not tell her," he said softly.

Turgon shook his head, his kingly blue eyes glinting with mingled sadness and deep respect for Idril. "No, my dear sister-son. She is my darling little Idril... but she is also a noble lady. She deserves to know the truth, and I know that she is strong enough to bear it."

Unable to deny the truth of that, Maeglin nodded slowly, acknowledging the wisdom of his King's will. At the same time, his heart filled with hope alongside his grief for her as he realized that, once Idril did know the truth, she would be free to choose for herself what to feel about his love for her.

Turgon smiled warmly at Maeglin, but then his eyes were suddenly troubled as his thoughts turned in a different direction. Maeglin read the shadow of war in their gaze.

"There is something else we must discuss, Maeglin," he said in a grim voice. "I have received tidings that Lord Maedhros, dear friend of my brother Fingon, is gathering forces from among all the Eldar of Beleriand to attack the Dark Enemy in his fortress. I have sent no word to them, for I dare not risk a messenger being waylaid by evil and revealing the secrets of our city -- but when Maedhros and Fingon's forces march against Angband, I intend to bring an army of my Gondolindrim to aid them."

Maeglin stared, dismayed. He knew that Gondolin had remained secure for years because of its secrecy. He also knew that grievous harm had come repeatedly to the Eldar's other kingdoms, as well as to the lands of Men and of Maeglin's own old friends the Naugrim dwarves, from even the smaller battles that had raged across Middle-earth far longer than Maeglin's own lifetime. Now, hearing Turgon's words, the young lord feared for the beautiful city of Gondolin and its people.

_And what would happen to Idril, if Gondolin were discovered and overrun?_ Maeglin shook his head sharply, setting aside his terror for Idril in the face of his larger duty to his chosen liege-lord and all their people. "I understand, lord," he said. "What must I do to help? Name it. I will not fail you."

Turgon looked intently into his eyes. "For now," he said, his voice clearly expressing the vital importance he attached to this request, "I need you to redouble your efforts in your iron mine of Anghabar in our northern mountains. Ten thousand Eldar will march from Gondolin to the battle against Morgoth's stronghold, and all must be armed with the very best weapons and armor that your skill, and the skill of those who work under you, can devise."

Maeglin nodded. In the midst of his worry, his heart also warmed with pride in his smoothly-run mining operations and the expert craftsmen he led. As he had many times before, Maeglin blessed the training that he had received from the Naugrim in his youth. "Of course, lord. We have great stock of iron already mined, and several rich lodes only partially tapped. The things you need should be ready in only a few weeks' time."

"That will be more than soon enough," Turgon replied. "Maedhros does not plan to move against Angband until two months from now." The king's eyes now held a mixture of love and honest fear for Maeglin. "At that time, I wish for you to remain here and rule Gondolin in my stead until I return."

He put a hand on Maeglin's shoulder. "I will not risk losing you, my sister-son."

In spite of the honor Maeglin felt at being asked to lead Gondolin's people, he frowned. "My lord, how can you ask me to let you go into danger without standing by your side to defend you?" He shook his head. "Forgive me, but I cannot. I beg that you will allow me to march forth to war along with your army. Surely my mother Aredhel will not be accompanying the warriors? She has no training in the use of weapons except for those used in hunting. Perhaps she might rule here in your absence?"

Maeglin suddenly looked down, realizing how bold he had been to suggest policy of rulership to his uncle and king. But as he looked up again, Turgon smiled.

"Yes," he said, "Aredhel will certainly be remaining here. Her bow would avail her little in face-to-face combat against Morgoth's Orcs! And the people love her. They will be pleased to follow her for a time. As for you, Maeglin, I cannot deny your bravery. I had hoped to protect you, but I will rejoice to know that your valiant sword is by my side."

"Thank you, my lord." Maeglin bowed before Turgon, then strode purposefully from the room. The bright hope he now felt about Idril was an inspiring background to his precise, calculated thoughts and plans for the hastened workings of his mines.

-

"Father?" Idril asked, stepping quickly into the sitting room. "What did you wish to tell me?" One of Turgon's guards had found her moments earlier, telling her that Turgon had asked for her to come and speak with him here.

Turgon stood up from his chair and quickly crossed the room to embrace her. "My dear Idril," he said, and his voice was both warm and strangely tense. The combination alarmed her a little.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Her father pulled back to hold her at arms' length, looking into her face. "Maeglin was here a short time ago, speaking to me about you. He told me the truth about his feelings for you..."

"I already know," Idril said grimly. "He cannot hide it from me. I wish he did not feel that way!"

"It may not be as wrong as you think," Turgon replied.

Idril stared at him in confusion. "How can that be?" she asked. "We are cousins!"

"No, Idril," Turgon said, "not truly. I must ask your forgiveness. I have not told you something that, by rights, you should always have known." He sighed. "You never really asked me, as you grew up, and I could never quite bring myself to hurt you with the truth. But I must tell you now."

Idril listened, speechless, as Turgon told her the full story of her rescue during the Crossing of the Helcaraxë for the first time. When he finished speaking, there were tears on her face.

"I understand now," she said, her voice strong in spite of her grief. "And thank you; I now know two mothers to love and honor for what they did to save me."

She realized that her heart felt a little anxious, even though she knew there was no need for worry. "And, lord... you are still my father, to me." Her sky-blue eyes stared into his sapphire ones. "I am still your daughter, am I not?"

"Of course!" Turgon said fervently. "You are now and always my little Silverfoot, Idril Celebrindal, who wondered long ago if her little feet had truly turned to silver when I gave her that name."

Idril smiled and even found herself laughing a little at his mention of one of her favorite childhood memories. She felt completely comforted by his assurance that she was truly a daughter to him.

_And Maeglin..._ she thought suddenly, the thought of his name less unsettling than it had been since the first night she met him and he looked at her the way he had done so many times since. _He has not been wrong all this time after all, to feel as he does!_ Idril still did not know if she would ever care for Maeglin the way he did for her; but it was very comforting to know that, at least, there was no evil in his feelings for her.

She saw again the unhappiness that always showed in Maeglin's eyes during the split second before she fled from the intense looks he often gave her. She had always thought that the pain he felt was for himself at her rejection, but now she wondered if he might instead have been grieving for _her_ distress.

_Perhaps Aredhel's son has a more gentle spirit than I realized through my fear,_ Idril thought._ The next time I see him, I must apologize for the way I have been reacting to his presence._

-

Author's Note: I haven't ended up drawing an illustration for this chapter, because there really isn't anything all that visually new in it. If I draw any later, I'll definitely post them on my Homepage, though!

The next chapter will definitely come with artwork. This one has been rather talk-oriented, but Chapter 5 will focus on action!


	5. Chapter 5: War

Author's Note: Well, the update is finally here! I know it's taken me forever -- I'm sorry! I've been besieged by the dreaded Busy Monster again. *hides from angry fans* Okay: for whatever reason, I've lived up to my little tradition of unusually long Chapter 5's! It was true of "The Last Note" and then the same thing happened with "Sundered Kindreds" and now this -- in each case, Chapter 5 of my ongoing Tolkien fics ends up about twice the length of my other chapters to date! Can anyone clue me in on why this might be happening? =D

My sister Razzle has bailed me out on my promise to include artwork when I post this chapter! She's drawn a wonderful picture of Huor and Húrin from a scene near the end, and it's now posted along with this fic's other illustrations on our website, which you can get to -- as always -- from the Homepage link on my profile. I do also plan to draw pictures for this chapter myself, but since Razzle's is ready and mine aren't, I'm still going ahead and posting this chapter so neither I nor my loyal readers will have to wait any more for it!

Now for the same open request I made recently in "The Last Note": I would dearly love it if YOU *Lysana points at you, the person reading this now* would draw me any illustrations for this fic (or any of my others!) especially if you gave me permission to post them up and credit you for drawing them for me! I do not care if you aren't proud of your art skills. No matter how good you think you are or aren't, I'd be honored and delighted if you would draw any art for my fanfics!

This chapter is dedicated to Princess Arimae -- my first reviewer for this story aside from the ever-loyal Araloth!

-

Chapter 5: War

"Maeglin!"

The young lord turned around in astonishment. It was Idril's voice -- but she had never willingly sought him out before. Cautiously, he looked into her face. "My lady?"

Idril blushed, looking down at her clasped hands for an instant before meeting his gaze again. Behind her, the setting sun seemed to balance between two peaks of the Encircling Mountains. The light poured over Gondolin's white walls and along the pebbled street to catch in her already radiant hair, turning the gold to fire.

"My father has told me what truly happened when I almost died in the Helcaraxë," she said finally. "Maeglin... I am sorry. Please forgive me for thinking that you were twisted, all these years."

Maeglin's heart leaped at her words. At the same time, he could not stand the thought of her blaming herself. "Idril," he said from the depths of his heart, "there is nothing to forgive. I believed the same thing about myself until this afternoon when your father entrusted me with the truth about your heritage."

Idril's eyes were still wary, but they no longer held the appalled fear with which she usually looked at him. As always, Maeglin could not look away from her.

After a silent moment, she spoke again. "I have treated you poorly," she said. "Thank you for your understanding." Her voice was formal and reserved now, but carried a hint of hidden, uncertain emotions. "Neither of us can tell what the future holds, Maeglin. I do not yet know what my own heart may one day tell me in this matter." Elegantly, with the flawless grace of one who was not only a lady of the Eldalië but also a peerless dancer, she curtsied to Maeglin. Then, without either of them speaking another word, she turned and headed quickly back towards the palace of her adopted father, King Turgon.

Maeglin stared after her for several seconds after she had vanished around a nearby corner. Then he turned to his right and continued on his way to the path leading to the northern mountains and his iron mine. Having spent the past few hours making careful plans, he was now ready to begin the weeks of intensive labor it would take to oversee the arming of Turgon's ten thousand warriors.

-

Two months passed, and a few days before Midsummer the army of Gondolin set out on their unheralded mission. Maeglin marched at the head of the army alongside his king. Surrounded by a small company of heralds, banner bearers, and the foremost few of the King's many armored soldiers, the two lords crossed the field of Tumladen. One by one, the Seven Gates beneath the mountains opened before them, until they left the darkness of the Hidden Way behind them and reached the Pass of Sirion under the open sky.

It was the first time that Maeglin had left Gondolin since he first arrived in that city some years before. Looking at the narrow pass that wound out of sight to the north between the mountains, he reflected that some parts of the outside world were actually narrower than Tumladen's encircled valley.

_And what of the dungeons of the Great Enemy in Angband?_ he thought suddenly. _The walls there must be far closer and darker than these mountains. For the sake of those who labor there in terror and slavery, we must indeed wage this war._

"What is in your mind, Maeglin?" Turgon asked, looking into his sister-son's pale young face. As they continued to march forward, taking the northward road through the Pass, row upon row of Gondolin's warriors poured out of the Outer Gate behind them.

"I was thinking that you are right, my Lord," Maeglin answered. "I feared for the safety of Gondolin when you said that we would march out to this war, but now I see that it is for those who _have_ no safety that we must fight."

"Well-spoken!" Turgon agreed. "And truly, if we cannot defeat the Enemy, with all the might of the Eldar that is gathering in this Union of Maedhros, then indeed it will be all the living beings of Middle-earth who will find ourselves without safety." Lifting his troubled sapphire eyes, he looked far ahead along the Pass.

-

A few days' march later, Maeglin saw the northern end of the Pass of Sirion opening out before the feet of Turgon's army. Far off in the northeast, beyond a waiting brown-clad army of nameless foes that seemed to stretch across the plain, a cloud of black smoke reached upward to stain the sky.

"The fumes of Angband..." Maeglin said quietly. His heart, struck by terror at the sight, was nevertheless also fired to a fierce boldness. That was the place that they had come to overthrow! He closed his strong right hand around the hilt of his slender sword where it hung belted to the waist of his smooth, black _galvorn_ armor.

"Aye, indeed," Turgon said gravely, his voice strong and assured. Raising his mighty trumpet, he blew a brief, powerful melody of defiant notes.

The King's music echoed and rang between the mountains and out into the charred, open field of Anfauglith, the dusty wasteland that Morgoth had created around his accursed fortress. Far away, ahead and to the lefthand side, Maeglin heard a triumphant voice calling in answer.

Turgon's eyes lit, and he put away his trumpet. "That is my brother Fingon's voice!" he said joyfully. "He says that the night is passing. He is here, and all stands ready for the great battle!"

A little distance to the side, the mighty captain named Ecthelion looked towards Maeglin and the king. "Indeed!" he said. "Now we must only await the signal to move."

Maeglin understood; Turgon's people had learned that Maedhros and his brothers planned to launch an attack against Angband's forces from the east, before Fingon and his people would sweep down from the hills of Ered Wethrin in the west and seize the dark armies between the jaws of a trap of doom. Turgon had decided, after taking counsel with Maeglin and several other lords, to wait and attack at the same time as Fingon's army.

Suddenly, a commotion rang out along the walls of Ered Wethrin. Without warning the hosts of Fingon streamed downwards from the hills towards Morgoth's army; Maeglin, staring into the distance with his elven-sight, almost thought that they were led by one small company that sped forward ahead of High King Fingon and the rest.

"To battle!" someone shouted nearby, and before Maeglin could draw another breath there were dozens of warriors sprinting past him and Turgon on either side.

"Stop!" the King commanded in a mighty voice. "To me, Gondolindrim! Something is not right. There has been no signal!"

Maeglin, realizing in alarm that what Turgon said was all too true, added his voice to his lord's. "Listen to the King!" he called commandingly. "Where is Maedhros? _Think!_ The evil lord of Angband is beguiling us into a trap!"

As one of the warriors ran past, Maeglin grasped him by the shoulder and half-spun him, forcing him to stop. "Obey your King!" he said sternly.

Abashed, the warrior dropped his eyes, as the mad battle-light in them faded a little and was replaced by reason. Maeglin released his shoulder, and turned to see what the other soldiers were doing.

"Stand your ground! To me!" Turgon's wrathful voice was still ringing out above the wild sounds of the nearby battle. "Attack now and you fight for Morgoth! Sheathe your swords and _stand!_"

Gradually, the soldiers of Gondolin regained control of their spirits. Maeglin, Turgon, and Ecthelion, along with the fierce but always cautiously wise Lord Glorfindel, had managed to recall discipline to their noble, fiery hearts. Only a few fighters could not be dissuaded, and leapt forward without heeding any command. Swiftly, they joined the ranks of Fingon's madly attacking forces and were lost to sight in the vast battle that now seemed to cover all the dust of Anfauglith's plains.

"Fingon, my brother," Turgon said heavily, bowing his head in grief. "What madness is this? What blow has the Dark Lord struck against your people's hearts, to send your plans so badly astray?" Raising his head and looking out over the battle into the distant east, he echoed Maeglin's words of a moment earlier. "And where is Maedhros?"

-

The day passed slowly, and the night even more terribly so. Then, as the red-fingered dawn climbed slowly across the wasted plain, some of Turgon's clever, silent scouts returned from their mission of discovery. Maeglin stood silent beside his king, listening in dismay to their grim report.

"My lord," one said quietly but urgently, "Fingon's forces have attacked Angband itself, but they were driven back. Now they stand encircled not very far from here, set about in the open field by a massive ring of Orcs."

Turgon's face seemed to be made of stone, but his eyes showed Maeglin the searing depth of agony that he felt at this news of his brother Fingon's plight. "And Maedhros?" the lord of Gondolin asked. "Have the sons of Fëanor and their forces not yet arrived?"

"There is no sign of them," another scout replied. "For whatever reason, they still have not come."

"Then we must," Turgon said decisively. "Whatever has delayed my cousins, we must do our best to fill their place in the battle." He lifted his trumpet again and sounded it more furiously than he had done the day before. "To war!" he cried in a voice of thunder. "Yesterday I asked you all to stay back for me, but no longer! Now we march to victory or death!"

Maeglin's heart seemed to catch fire as he and the others surged forward along with Lord Turgon. _Finally!_ he thought in a kind of terrible bright elation. _At last, we will fight for our people and our world!_

Only moments seemed to pass before Turgon's army crashed into the outer ranks of Morgoth's horde of Orcs. Maeglin moved almost unconsciously as the battle surrounded him, smoothly striking and blocking with the pale, flickering steel blade of his black-hilted sword. The hilt, forged of _galvorn_ metal like his black chainmail armor, felt warm in Maeglin's hand as it always did during practice back in Gondolin.

Beside him, someone suddenly yelled in agony and fell. Maeglin glanced in that direction for an instant and saw the armored form of one of his fellow Gondolindrim lying motionless on the ground. The dark-haired fighter lay facedown, and Maeglin could not even tell who he was.

_No!_ Maeglin thought, horror washing over him as his young heart truly realized for the first time that he stood in the middle of a massive, real, deadly battle. He felt no fear for himself, but grief and guilt at the thought that somehow the armor _he_ had been responsible for creating had not been good enough, and had let this person die.

A jagged pain in Maeglin's upper left arm reminded him cruelly that he could not afford to be distracted even by grief. He looked up, furious now, and saw the grinning face of an Orc mere inches from his own.

The sight of the Orc's eyes sent another shock through Maeglin's already reeling spirit. The eyes in the scarred, pitted gray face were dark and flaming; they might have been terrifying enough to anyone, but Maeglin's deeply perceptive sight showed him the soul behind those eyes. The Orc's mind, Maeglin saw, was consumed with a poisonous hate, an evil joy in the idea of hurting and killing other living beings... and beneath it all, an awful, hopeless feeling of despair.

"No!" Maeglin cried out aloud this time, trying with all his own heart and soul to deny that such a creature could possibly exist. His hand moving almost faster than his mind could direct it, he whipped his sword around and stabbed it directly through the awful fighter's heart. The Orc's eyes went wide, then blank, as Maeglin pulled his sword free and spun around to face another enemy whose footsteps he had just heard advancing in a headlong rush behind him.

Somehow, Maeglin and his lord and people found a way through the horror of the battle to the spot where King Fingon and the remnant of his army stood. Fingon cried aloud in joy as he saw his brother Turgon.

The sight of the two mighty lords standing together filled Maeglin's battered heart with renewed hope. _We are not too late!_ he rejoiced silently, even as he continued to fight. _My lord's brother Fingon still stands!_

"And Húrin!" Turgon said above the roar of battle, his eyes lighting with still more joy. Maeglin spared a swift, sharp look and saw the mortal Man of Dor-lómin who had once visited Gondolin along with his brother Huor. Snapping his gaze quickly back to the enemies around him, Maeglin frowned slightly. He had never trusted the mortal pair or any of their kind, and still did not like the thought of the close friendship that his king had formed with these two of Eru's Secondborn.

"My lord Turgon!" Húrin replied, a broad grin spreading across his face. Then he looked up into the eastern distance, as did many, at the triumphant sound of many horns and trumpets swiftly approaching. Even the Orcs stopped to look eastward in dismay, crying out in rough voices as their savagery was overtaken by fear.

"It is Maedhros!" Fingon shouted joyfully, stabbing his sword high into the air above his head in a gesture of jubilation before bringing it down again to meet the blade of still another attacking Orc. "My friend and cousin has arrived!" The High King's voice changed from a cry of personal joy to a ringing battle challenge. "Hear me, Eldar! Our forces are now united! Let us clean the world of Morgoth's armies of evil!"

But Morgoth, or the fate of Arda, had other plans. Suddenly a second host rushed onto the war-filled plain. Sweeping out from the distant gates of Angband, there came Balrogs, trolls, and countless multitudes of still more Orcs, some of whom were riding on great fearful wolves.

And at the front of them all, there stalked a nightmare.

Maeglin's heart nearly froze at the sight, distant though it was; a great sinuous dragon, blasting fire from his mouth as he slunk more swiftly than a fleet running horse across the battlefield. Cries of dismay and fear filled the air all around, and the sound of Maedhros' trumpets could no longer be heard. In a storm of wild confusion, the armies of the Elves were scattered before they could join together.

Moments after the dragon appeared, it turned suddenly to the east and vanished beneath the vast, spreading cloud of its own smoke; Maeglin realized in fear and horror that it was moving to attack Lord Maedhros and his people. But he had only seconds to consider that, for out of the smoke another living terror appeared. Mightier and taller than any of the other Balrogs, wielding a great flaming sword as well as its burning whip, crowned with a dark horned hemet from which red flames continually erupted; this could only be Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, more terrible than any but one other of Morgoth's demon slaves.

_And if the abhorred Sauron himself were to come here,_ Maeglin thought, despair threatening to overwhelm him against his will, _could we fare any worse than we are now?_ Beyond the ranks of lesser evil soldiers, Gothmog suddenly seemed to look straight at Maeglin, the flames beneath his helmet blazing directly into the young Elf's eyes.

_You are doomed,_ Maeglin seemed to hear in his mind. _None of you pitiful Firstborn can stand even against my power, let alone that of my Lord Melkor!_

Maeglin shook his head, trying to rid himself of the vast, mocking voice that rang silently in his ears. "We will try!" he found himself shouting aloud. "You cannot win forever!" But the tide of battle was turning overwhelmingly in Gothmog's favor, and Maeglin found himself and his king being driven back along with their people, away from Fingon and the small handful of fighters who still stood alongside him.

"No! My liege-lord!" Húrin's voice shouted wildly, and Maeglin realized that the warrior was standing beside him. Húrin must have been swept away from Fingon along with most of Turgon's forces, and now he tried vainly to carve a path back through the wide river of Orc-warriors that now separated them from the High King.

To his horror, Maeglin caught sight of a second Balrog leaping up behind Fingon. In the lowest, most unchivalrous act that Maeglin had ever conceived of, the demon beast coiled its whip around Fingon's body, pinning the Elvenking's noble arms to his sides.

In the same heartbeat, Gothmog raised his sword high into the air and swung it down hard. His flaming eyes were filled with triumph, and the deep, booming mockery of his laughter rolled across the battlefield as he split Fingon's shining helm in two. Pure white fire blazed upward from the broken helm, but King Fingon's limp, lifeless body fell smoothly to the ground and was hidden from view.

_"No!!!"_ Húrin screamed aloud in anguish, throwing himself forward. His own heart bursting with grief for his King's brother, though he had never met Fingon before that day, Maeglin leaped forward himself and closed his hands around Húrin's shoulders. Man or Elf, it made no difference; Maeglin could not endure the idea of allowing yet another senseless death.

Húrin twisted around to face him, his eyes filled with a madness of burning grief that almost made Maeglin let go of his shoulders. Instead, the Elf-lord stared back with an angry, resolute gaze of his own.

"You cannot save him!" Maeglin said forcefully. "You must live now, so that you can avenge his fall!"

Húrin's eyes wildly tried to defy Maeglin's words for a brief moment, then he dropped his head. "I..." His voice failed him, and he shook his head angrily, tears spraying from the corners of his eyes. Maeglin released the young warrior's shoulders; he could tell that Húrin's sanity had now caught up with his agonized heart.

Recovered from his brief fit of near-madness, Húrin turned to the silent, stricken King Turgon and spoke in a restrained voice. Maeglin realized only then that the noise of battle was dying down; Turgon's forces were swiftly falling back towards the defensible Pass of Sirion, and the Orcs were not yet hurrying to follow.

As Maeglin listened, both Húrin and his brother Huor urgently advised Turgon to lead his people back to Gondolin while they still had time to make an escape. Turgon, his voice bleak, argued that even Gondolin might no longer be safe after the Eldar's ruinous defeat; but Huor still insisted that Turgon should return to his city. His mysterious words seemed almost prophetic, speaking of new hope that would arise from himself and Turgon; but he also spoke as though he expected Gondolin to fall soon, and that thought sent a dark horror through Maeglin.

-

Húrin and Huor did not accompany the Gondolindrim back to their city, though even Maeglin found that he would have welcomed them. Instead, they stayed behind in a valiant last stand of defense; both to guard the retreat of Turgon's army and those of Fingon's people who accompanied them, and because the Secondborn were unwilling to abandon the lands of their home.

The people of Gondolin welcomed the soldiers back with rejoicing, despite the sorrow of the battle from which they had returned. Aredhel was desperately glad to see that both her brother and her son had come back safely; and even Idril made it clear that she was truly happy that Maeglin had survived. Still, the entire city grieved long for the many losses that the Eldar had suffered, and not least for the death of Fingon, High King of all the Noldor and dear brother of both Turgon and Aredhel.

After a time, secret messengers reported to Turgon that Círdan the Shipwright had established a haven by the western shores of Middle-earth. Still deeply troubled as well as grieved by the crushing defeat of the battle that the Noldor had named Nirnaeth Arnoediad, or 'Unnumbered Tears', the king of Gondolin sent messengers to beg Círdan's aid in constructing swift ships to set sail for Valinor and plead with Lord Manwë and the other Valar for their aid.

_Will it be enough?_ Maeglin wondered, as he stood silently on the ramparts of the city walls and watched the messengers departing. The power of the Valar could not be doubted, he knew -- but would they come?

Maeglin turned to look over his shoulder into the city that had come to be his home. Somewhere inside these walls, Idril and Aredhel and Turgon were safe, for now, along with many other Eldar that Maeglin knew and loved.

_Will the Valar come?_ Maeglin wondered again. _Or are we all doomed?_


End file.
